The Battle I Fought in Secret

Growing up in Beverly Hills, there was an unspoken pressure to be dazzling in every way. Perfect grades, perfect skin, perfectly time-coded Instagram posts—all of it choreographed to appear effortless. But the true theater of my life wasn’t happening on Rodeo Drive or at my cousin’s bar mitzvah after-party. My battlefield? A seemingly trivial yet deeply personal struggle I faced with a relentless foe: my people-pleasing obsession.

I know what you’re thinking. People-pleasing? Really? But hear me out. While some hurdles are external—like biting rejections or existential dread over whether Harry Styles will find true love post-Taylor and Olivia—some battles are internal. Mine boiled down to wanting everyone to like me. All the time. At all costs. Even if it left me depleted.

Spoiler alert: it did.

The Password to Approval Land: “Yes”

My people-pleasing tendencies took root somewhere between Hebrew school carpool and my 16th birthday at The Ivy. (Yes, that Ivy. Iconic for overpriced salads and celebrity spottings—not exactly where you want to panic about social dynamics as a teenager.) Somewhere along the line, I learned that saying “yes” was a currency. Yes to plans I didn’t want to attend. Yes to favors that made my schedule collapse like a Jenga tower. Yes to being the emotional airbag for overly dramatic acquaintances.

I wasn’t necessarily the most popular kid in school—I’m not Rachel Green in the pilot of Friends. But if you needed someone to edit your essay, cover for you when you snuck out, or listen to your hour-long breakdown about whether your crush would notice your new Marc Jacobs bag, I was your girl. By my early twenties, this habit wasn’t just who I was—it was currency I couldn’t stop spending.

One particular incident stands out: A friend called at 10 p.m., sobbing over a breakup, asking me to drive out to Calabasas “just to sit with her.” For reasons I can’t explain—most likely because I’d watched too many Nancy Meyers films where showing up was framed as the Highest Form of Friendship—I went. Never mind that I had a screenplay deadline the next day. Never mind that I got a speeding ticket on the way. Never mind that she fell asleep mid-cry ten minutes into my arrival.

I drove home at dawn wondering who the heck I was living for—her, me, or a bizarre and unwritten system where showing up for others guaranteed approval. Spoiler: I had her approval. I barely had my own.

When Pleasing Turned Crushing

Here’s the part no one tells you about people-pleasing: it’s sneaky. It starts out as a warm, fuzzy thing—like the early stages of a rom-com where the protagonist feels close to everyone. But over time, it shifts. You’re keeping mental ledgers, feeling resentment bubble, and frankly, you start to forget what no even sounds like coming out of your mouth.

In relationships, it was especially crushing. I dated a guy who once said, “I love how chill you are,” which was hilarious, considering my inner monologue during that relationship resembled a Real Housewives reunion episode—chaotic, full of arguments I wouldn’t dare say out loud. My “chill” persona? A projection I used to ensure I’d stay liked. Never mind that I silently fumed every time he ordered sushi without asking if I wanted edamame.

My turning point came during a family Shabbat dinner—not exactly the setting you expect for an epiphany, but hey, G-d works in mysterious ways. My cousin was talking about running a marathon, and out of nowhere, my mom said, “You know, Becca always wanted to run one too.” I blinked. I had literally never expressed such a desire, but instead of asserting what was true—“No, Mom, I’d rather curl up with a Philip Roth novel”—I smiled politely and agreed. Because that’s what I did.

The guilt, the exhaustion, the inauthenticity—none of it surfaced until I was lying in bed that night, panicking over how I’d convince anyone that I was suddenly into 26.2 miles when I got winded walking around The Grove. I realized then: I wasn’t living for me—I was living for an audience. And I was exhausted.

Trading “Yes” for “Maybe” (And Sometimes a Hard “No”)

Cue the dramatic montage scene where I learn to say “no” to plans and “yes” to myself, featuring Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” blasting in the background. Okay, it wasn’t quite that cinematic. But shedding my people-pleasing habit was definitely a journey.

Here’s what helped me break free:

  1. The “Pause” Rule
    Instead of immediately agreeing to something, I trained myself to pause and think it over—even if it meant awkwardly saying, “Let me get back to you.” It gave me room to assess whether I genuinely wanted to agree or if it was just impulse approval-seeking.

  2. Micro-Rejections
    Saying “no” to small things helped prep me for bigger boundaries. Did I want to stay late after a work meeting to help someone reorganize their files? No, I did not. Did it feel terrifying to say so the first time? You bet. But I survived.

  3. Phone-a-Friend Practice
    I recruited my best friend—a no-nonsense New Yorker who’d sooner eat grocery store sushi than let people guilt her into doing things—to help me practice setting limits. She gamely role-played scenarios, and every time I texted her, “Guess what? I said no to [insert draining favor here],” she sent back ALL CAPS TEXTS like the true hype-woman she is. (Find yourself a friend like this immediately.)

  4. Therapeutic “Homework”
    Therapy? Iconic. It turned out my crippling need for approval stemmed from childhood perfectionism. My therapist—a silver-haired woman who inexplicably always smelled like lavender—assigned homework, like journaling my feelings when I said yes to things out of obligation. (Spoiler alert: I felt awful 90% of the time.)

  5. Self Check-Ins
    I asked myself, “Does this align with my priorities or values?” If the answer was no, I gave myself permission to decline. Simple, yet revolutionary.

The Life Nobody Approves But Me

People-pleasing isn’t just about saying no—it’s about leaning into authenticity and realizing you’re never going to be for everyone. I don’t hang out with the Calabasas friend anymore. I also didn’t run the marathon, much to my mom’s chagrin (though she did send me a very detailed 5K training plan “just in case”). And while there are still times I catch myself wanting to be Little Miss Agreeable, I’ve learned that protecting my energy doesn’t make me selfish—it makes me healthier.

Now? When someone asks for a favor, I assess my bandwidth before committing. When a guy says he loves how “low maintenance” I am, I smile and clarify that actually, I have a skincare routine that takes at least 20 minutes. And when my agency asks if I can work on a script over the weekend, I weigh whether it’s worth giving up my sacred Friday-night Shabbat dinners. (Nine out of ten times, it’s not).

The battle I fought in secret wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary for becoming the most authentic version of myself. And for anyone still locked in their own approval war? Here’s your permission slip to stop fighting. Trust me, you’ll never look back.